


Thieves

by Omnibard



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Love Triangles, Narcissism, One-Shot, except not really love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-17 14:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18100643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard
Summary: This was inspired by a prompt on tumblr another writer received about Arthur falling for Dutch's lover and discovering that Dutch is a poor, selfish lover to her.So that's what this is about: Dutch picks up a new paramour and Arthur falls for her.(tw: emotional abuse, psychological abuse, mildly descriptive images of rough-maybe-not-entirely-consensual sex, threatened/alluded to physical abuse)





	Thieves

Arthur knew she was trouble the moment he saw her riding into camp on The Count’s back, behind Dutch, her arms looped securely around his waist.  Dutch introduced her with a broad smile as ‘Miss Catherine-Louise Schofield’ from Boston, and more than her name, they noted that she was young and beautiful, with dark hair and pale eyes.  She was also wealthy and well-connected, and supposedly had valuable information that would assure them a hefty payday in weapons, ammunition, and cash.

Miss O’Shea did not recognize her, at first, as her own replacement.  Arthur, John, and Hosea did, and the others were quick to follow in the observation.  Miss Grimshaw among the first, and she sighed somewhat resignedly and busied herself elsewhere in the camp.  The other women were equally cool in their reception, and the men were respectful, keeping their lingering looks to themselves as Dutch paraded her around and announced a party in honor of their new, valuable addition.  It might have been that moment precisely when Miss O’Shea’s eyes gleamed a bit greener.

That night they drank long and late, and Dutch played his music.  Miss Catherine was wise to quickly ingratiate herself with the women-- barring Miss O’Shea who kept her distance as usual, speaking to them as her equals, but with deference to their seniority in the group, asking advice and promising favors.  She was not shy with her humor and wit, and it did not take many bottles for the ladies to laugh and clasp her hand like an old friend. Likewise, with the men who dared speak with her more than a polite greeting under Dutch’s watchful eye, they were rewarded their boldness with an engaging smile and a few moments of her attention as she asked after something she remembered their leader mentioning, so that when she moved on, they swelled in the chest and strutted like courting cocks.

Micah was too bold by  _ far _ however, and as Arthur could only expect, made a magnificent ass of himself by asking her to dance.  Either he was incapable of reading the situation, or didn’t rightly care, but just because Dutch and Hosea were in his tent discussing some new plan, did not mean their leader had not reserved her hand for the evening.  Arthur watched the dark eyes from the tent raise up under the thick brows, something fierce and ugly gleaming in the firelight, and sighed before raising his voice to tell Micah to  _ get lost _ .

The fiery killer rounded on him, “I wasn’t talking to--”

“--I’m flattered,” Miss Catherine’s reply was velvet and smoke, and Arthur told himself it was the night air that had chased down his spine instead, “but I couldn’t possibly accept, Mister Bell.  Mister van der Linde made me promise to reserve him the first dance. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?”

“Oh… oh of course, miss…”

“Of  _ course _ , he will,” Dutch chose that moment to saunter out into the firelight from his tent, Hosea behind him, shaking his head, at a loss, “Mister Bell is a good,  _ loyal _ man, and wouldn’t think of imposing on you.”

The radiant warmth of Miss Catherine’s smile as he took her hand to twirl her into his arms chased away any remaining doubts from the old guards’ minds concerning the situation, “It’s very encouraging to learn that there is some honor amongst us thieves.”

“Not all thieves,” Dutch confided, “but my boys here know the code.  We’re a family here, Miss Catherine, and we’re all very happy to have you here with us.  Myself especially.”

He danced with her, unmindful of Molly’s venomous looks.  Arthur felt for her, but then again, it wasn’t that long ago she was in Miss Catherine’s shoes replacing Miss Susan Grimshaw.  The only difference was that Grimshaw, like Miss Catherine, had put forward the effort of mingling with the entire gang, whereas Molly had reserved herself for Dutch’s attentions only.

Miss O’Shea had not been fair with most of the gang, treating them all beneath her, and so her lot would not receive much sympathy.

“Maybe now we’ll get some work out of her,” Miss Grimshaw muttered at Arthur’s shoulder.

With a low chuckle, the outlaw replied, “I wouldn’t bet on that horse, miss.”

They danced most of the night away, Dutch and his new mistress, and plotted the rest of it.  The were observed talking in low voices, and the snatches of their conversation that could be overheard by others were equal parts discussing stratagems for this big take they had planned, and complimenting each other on their cunning.  Soon enough though, Dutch announced his intention to retire for the night, and asked Miss Catherine in his most convincing tone of voice if she might have any interest in joining him. After all, it wasn’t as if any other tent in the camp would provide a lady of her status with any kind of creature comforts as she might be used to.

The lady was in the middle of her demure and flattered response when an enraged and drunk Molly accosted the both of them. “No, she cannae!  She’ll not sleep in  _ my bed _ wit’  _ my man! _  What’s wrong wit’ you, Dutch?!”

“Miss O’Shea--” The dark haired young lady began calmly.  She was interrupted by a slap to the face and the Irish woman’s shriek.

“I wasnae talkin’ t’ye, you snake-eyed trollop!  Who d’ye think you are?!”

There was a moment of silence as Dutch’s face blotched with fury and he gathered his breath to shout, but the silence was broken instead by Miss Catherine’s quiet laugh.

“Oh, you poor thing,” She said gently, “I’m Catherine-Louise Schofield, and I promise you, if you touch me again in anger, I’ll cut off your hand and feed it to the chickens.”

Even Dutch seemed momentarily taken aback by the response-- the silk-wrapped iron of her voice and words.  Karen started cackling madly so that Sean joined her. John appeared to be holding back his own derisive laughter behind a hand-- Arthur remembered he was especially disgusted with Dutch’s old flame and her pretentious ways.  But then, Molly had treated John particularly poorly, as if his position as the ‘favorite son’ were a threat to her own standing in Dutch’s eyes.

When the outlaw leader gathered his words at last, he said, “Now, ladies, there isn’t any reason for violence at all…”

“No,” Said Miss Catherine, “I’m sorry to distress you, Mister van der Linde, and after you received me so gallantly.  Your offer is lovely, but I can do very well for myself with the other ladies… if they’ll have me? I do not wish to intrude on you and Miss O’Shea.”

“Of course, dear,” Susan said hurriedly, beckoning her over, “we’ll set you up with some blankets… is this all you have to wear?  Did that oaf bring you out here without a coat?”

Dutch and Molly didn’t even spare each other one angry word.  They went to the tent separately, and as far as Arthur could tell, slept quietly until sunup.

Something must have been said, though, because the morning saw Miss O’Shea with her bags packed and her eyes puffy and red, makeup streaked with silent tears.  Arthur escorted her to the train station as directed. She did not return his goodbye.

* * *

They moved camp after that, of course.  Miss Catherine apologized for her behavior and was assured time and again that she had conducted herself admirably in the circumstance.  Several members of the gang told her in an aside what they would have done in her shoes, and in general it was made known that Miss Molly O’Shea would not be missed.  Dutch was somewhat reticent, however, and it was only the gentle pleasantries of his new mistress that brought a smile and polite word to his lips. She did not task his mood, however, and assisted Miss Grimshaw where she was able to set up the new camp.

She did not have many talents in this respect, but she was eager to learn, and determined to succeed.  The men were all generally amused by her efforts, and each found an opportunity to assist her with  _ something _ .

“You must be as strong as ten men, Mister Morgan,” She appraised him as he hauled out tent poles on his own over one shoulder and assisted her with the canvas with his free hand, “it’s no wonder at all how you all have found so much success!”

“Oh he’s strong alright,” Hosea chuckled, “but about as dumb as ten rocks put together, too.”

“Sure, go on and pick on me while I got my hands full, old man…”

“I don’t believe it,” The young lady smiled at them both, despite her encumbrance, “but even if it were so, isn’t that why they have you and Mister van der Linde, Mister Matthews?  I can only hope to be half as capable in that respect…”

“No, you’re definitely very clever, miss,” Hosea replied thoughtfully, “and we could do with another thinker in this group of guns.”

Whatever sourness the morning had brought him, it was dispelled by evening, and Dutch was in high spirits again.  He spoke excitedly about their next job-- a train loaded with new guns, ammunition, and cash, straight from the Schofield factory.  Miss Catherine joined him in his tent that night, and Arthur endured a restless night, debating the merits of asking Miss Grimshaw to let him move spots in the morning.

* * *

The next several days were a surprise to nobody who had been in the gang longer than a few months.  Smitten with and possessive of his new paramour, Dutch kept her close at hand, and so she was never far from his tent.  It seemed in that time she had read through  _ all _ of his books, and their lively discussions about the contents sounded from sunup to sundown.

After dark they had other ways of entertaining each other.

“You think he goes after younger women to feel young again?” Bill asked at the campfire.

Javier laughed, “Sure.  You ever have a young woman like that?  Keeps the blood hot, friend.”

Arthur said nothing and just stared into the flames, eager for things to go back to normal.  He’d like a full night of sleep again, soon.

* * *

The train job came, and despite the best efforts of idiots like Bill and Sean, ran smoothly enough.  No oiled machine, but effective. They returned to camp with a heavy haul of Schofield guns, and no small amount of money.  Hosea started working his contacts for a buyer, and Dutch praised Miss Catherine her brilliance and resourcefulness. She, in turn, congratulated each and every man on the job, giving them a thank you that seemed to come from her heart.

“It’s a good taste of justice,” She said to those gathered around the campfire as they passed glasses of liquor, “to see the callousness of my house paid in kind.”

“So we  _ are _ robbing your family…” John said.

“My father, and his father, and their dynasty of cruelty, yes.” Was her passionate admittance, “I assure you, gentlemen, there are few evils greater in this world than those ruled by wealth, and fewer men so ruled as Mister Robert Schofield.”

It sounded a little like  _ revenge _ , to Arthur, which rubbed him a bit raw, but Dutch was giving her a look so full of admiration and affection he nudged the suspicion to the furthest dark corner of his mind.

He liked hearing her talk that way, too, if he had to be perfectly honest about it.

 

He liked better, in the days that followed, when Dutch was too involved in his schemes to dote on her quite so fiercely-- and Arthur was getting more sleep at night-- watching her with the horses, and with Jack.  She treated everyone and everything in the camp with respect, but with the more innocent creatures, she was especially thoughtful. Each time she caught him looking, she’d spare him a quick, secret smile that fluttered through his belly and up his spine.

“You like horses, miss?” He asked one morning after he’d hauled out the hay and found her murmuring and stroking one of the unnamed cart horses.

“Don’t most of us?” She replied with a light laugh.

He shrugged, “Well enough, I suppose, but most fellers here don’t pay them any special attention.”

“Most… but not you, Mister Morgan.”

“Me?”

She grinned, beautiful and bright, “I’ve seen you.  Don’t try to deny it. You’re very considerate of your horse, and any horse, really.  I think you have a warm heart for animals, same as I do. I like that it’s something we share.”

“... I suppose…” And he felt about as dumb as ten rocks put together with her smiling at him like that.

* * *

With her hours no longer spent entertaining Dutch all day, she set about to make herself useful.  She helped with the laundry and the mending. With the cleaning and the cooking-- as much as Pearson would let anybody help him.  Fearlessly, she did not restrict herself to ‘woman’s work’, as she was not afraid to get messy or risk herself an injury, it seemed.  She coaxed Javier into teaching her how to clean and oil tack. She convinced Charles to teach her how to sharpen knives and dress a carcass.  John taught her how to shoot and clean a rifle. Lenny and Mary-Beth together taught her how to ride astride. Sean eagerly taught her how to make a fire without matches.  She didn’t succeed with most of it, but she put forward good effort, and never lost patience with herself or her instructor, even when they teased her.

 

“What the hell are you doing?!” Arthur demanded, not altogether able to help the note of alarm that climbed into his voice as he saw her swing the axe down at such an awkward angle that it seemed she was aiming for her left knee more than the lumber.

“Good afternoon… Arthur!” She greeted him cheerful and breathless, “I’m chopping firewood.”   
“You’re closer to chopping off your own leg!” He chastised, hurrying over with long strides to take the axe from her.

Blinking at him, she clutched to heavy tool to her bosom and said, “... Am I really managing so poorly?”

“Well…” He always felt so foolish trying to talk to her more than a ‘how do you do’, “... Surely you can find something else to do, miss.  I’ll take over here…”

“You do make it look so easy…”

“Been doin’ it a long time.  Now let me have that axe…”

Her pale eyes fixed on his and her features composed themselves into something resolute, “Will you teach me?”

“To chop firewood?  Nah, I don’t think--”

“--You’re always doing it.  What happens when you ride out and we need more?”

“I’d expect,” Arthur retorted with a tone of exasperation, “that you or Miss Grimshaw would make one of these other idiots chop more before I get back.”

“Maybe, but what do you think would be a more effective scolding?  For a lady to fuss at them about it, or to see me doing as they ought to have without complaint?”

Clever.  So clever, like Hosea and Dutch.  Too quick and clever for him.

He proceeded carefully, slowly, “... I teach you this, and you get hurt… Dutch will take it out of my hide, you know.”

Her smile was brilliant and beautiful, “Best teach me well, then.  Come on, Arthur. I trust you. It can’t be too difficult.”

“Well… first… You need to hold it properly.”   
“Will you show me?”

He stepped nearer, then paused and looked at her, “... What’s this about, anyway?  Why’re you so keen on all this work?”   
She shrugged and lowered the axe so that the head rested on the chopping stump, “... Work is what separates the rich from the poor, isn’t it?  A rich man oversees work. A rich woman is advised to avoid work. I grew up avoiding work, and outside of their rules I am helpless. You’ve seen me, Arthur.  I don’t know how to do  _ anything _ .  Ignorance is a prison, and I won’t be a prisoner anymore.  I’m not just a pretty bauble, not even for Dutch. There’s an entire world to learn just in this camp, and I’m hungry for it.”

He liked hearing her talk like this… where her pale eyes sparkled in the light, a flush bloomed in her cheeks, her brow set with determination, and her chin raised proud but not haughty.

He’d sketched this look too many times in his journal.  His thoughts were too full of her as of late, and it was evidenced by the leatherbound pages.

When he didn’t answer, and didn’t move forward further, she gave a little shrug and started to raise the axe up over her head, just as unsteady and dangerous as the last time.

“Woah, woah, hold on there…!” He closed the distance between their bodies, reaching up to still the sway of the axe in the air with one hand, “Your hands, like I said.  Here, put it down. This hand ought be here… and slide this one up here…”

His fingers on the back of her smooth, small hands were a distraction he could tuck aside in the moment-- he’d remember it later, unfortunately, in the quiet hours of the morning after Dutch had finished with her.

“I’m not sure I can make enough force holding it like this… I’m not as strong as you are, Mister Morgan…”

“The strength isn’t in your arms, Miss Catherine, it’s from your middle.  And your hips.”

“... A longer lever… I see…”

“Huh?”   
“... No, nevermind.  You’ll have to show me.  Come on.”

“Well, you should stand like this, turn your-- yes, that’s right.  Good. Now even if you miss you won’t cut yerself off at the knees.  Now lift straight up. Here…”

Suddenly, standing behind her, holding the axe just behind her hands but not firmly enough to take much of the weight off-- she needed to feel and balance that weight, after all, if she were serious about doing this herself-- his feet just beside hers, he became all too aware of how the front of his body was flush with the back of hers, and how she was essentially enclosed within his arms.  Worse still, he was damn sure she was just as aware of this, but instead of demuring or moving away or requesting he keep his space, she  _ settled _ .  She made herself warm and comfortable there, as if it were the most natural place in the world for her to be while lightning chased its way up and down his body in time with his pulse.  Every inhale was accompanied by the smell of her--wildflowers and that bewitching female essence-- and he felt the crazy inclination to bury his face in the nape of her neck behind her ear where he could see the fine hairs sticking to her skin from the sweat of her labors.

She turned her head a fraction over her shoulder, “... It’s heavy.” She said simply, not a complaint, only an observation, maybe a gentle prod to continue with his instruction.

It  _ was  _ heavy.  The discovery that he wanted Dutch’s new woman was a crushingly heavy weight to bear.  What was wrong with him, after Mary, and Eliza and Issac, that he would dare look down this path again?  What had gotten into him that he could entertain taking anything or anybody from  _ Dutch van der Linde _ for himself?

He was just a fool, he supposed.  A fool and a thief.

Stepping away from her, he kept one hand on the axe, but the distance brought no relief.  Instead he ached from the absence of her. “Look at where you’re chopping. Yer gonna want to put it down and swing up again.  Make it as much one motion as you can. One-two.”

He talked her through every chop, and though all the firewood was cut, he had to tell her straight-out that she made a poor axe woman.  She laughed carelessly and went to clean the wagon harnesses.

Dutch was in a good mood that night, after learning that a stagecoach full of government payroll was scheduled to roll through in the next few days.  He circled the camp, talking up the job with Miss Catherine tucked into his side. During supper, he caught a look at her in the fading light.

“What in the world happened to your hands?!” Was his exclamation at the sight of bloody blisters and torn open skin.

Her expression was the fierce victory of a battered champion, “Work!”

* * *

Arthur couldn’t get to sleep, his head too full, his blood too heated, and his neighbors too noisy.  Fortunately, their trysts were shorter and shorter lived at night, that he didn’t lose too much rest over them.  In fact, they had just quieted, only soft murmuring voices could be heard now, and he had just rolled over to consider sleep at last when he heard the tent flap open and someone walking away.  Curiosity or some worse evil got the better of him, and he climbed to his feet to peer around the cart in time to see Miss Catherine’s back and long mane of dark, unfettered hair disappear into the shadows of the trees around camp.  Dutch’s tent remained quiet, so against every better judgement in his brain, Arthur went to follow her.

She was looking out over the ridge, just on the other side of the trees, hair and skirts billowing in the wind, her shadow long in the moonlight.

“... Everything alright, miss?”

“Of course,” She said quietly, “Did I wake you?”

“No.  Was already awake.  ...You sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” She smiled over her shoulder at him, then, as if the sight of him standing there were a new revelation, her expression shifted, and she faced forward again, “... I’m not a fool, Arthur.”

“You’re perhaps the last person I would accuse, Miss Catherine…”

“... I know what it is to be used.  I was raised my entire life to accept the use of men for their own ends and pleasures.  It is the only purpose for a rich man’s daughter, they told me. I’m not a fool. I know he’s using me for his own vanities.”

“... Dutch?”

“... He was just more subtle about it in weeks past, that’s all.” She laughed lightly, “A pittance to pay, I suppose, for all I have to gain.”

Arthur wasn’t sure what to say, nor what force it was that drove his feet slowly forward.  His approach turned her head over her shoulder again.

“... But  _ you _ wouldn’t use me, Arthur,” She smiled at him, and the breath left his lungs and the blood in his body drained into his guts where it burned. “And I wouldn’t use you.”

“Ah.” He smiled back, wry, “Can’t be many uses a lady like you would have for an idiot like me, miss…”

Her pale eyes gleamed in the moonlight, and her smile turned clever, “Oh, I can think of a number of uses for a man like  _ you _ , Arthur Morgan…”

The way her eyes flicked over the whole of him-- from his face to his boots and back again-- was not easily misinterpreted.  It confused him, that she might find him desirable, somehow, where he stood in Dutch van der Linde’s impressive and vast shadow.  He held no illusions on his unattractive, sour face, and ineloquent, uninspired tongue, and rough, often moody disposition. Arthur knew what he was and what he couldn’t offer her.

He supposed she was just teasing him.  Or trying to flatter him, as he’d seen her do with the others…

… Except her flattery was usually very specific, tailored to the subject of her praises.  Her words were not so often left for open interpretation…

They turned over and over in his mind as he lie awake until sunrise.

* * *

Miss Catherine did not often leave the camp, per Dutch’s preference for keeping his lovers away from the eyes of men not in his employ, in case they got any foolish ideas out of disrespect or arrogance.   But on the occasions she did go, she travelled with Hosea and another, more physically capable member of the gang. Hosea and the lady enjoyed these outings, as she was inclined toward his taste for theater, and they would play father and daughter to gather information.  Like with the other women in the camp, it became obvious that people’s lips loosened around beautiful women, especially if they were wealthy and generous enough to buy rounds in the saloon for everyone there. Folk were that much more eager to talk to her when it seemed her only chaperone was a half-deaf old man, and maybe a younger man who only spoke broken English-- colored or otherwise.  The young lady couldn’t swing an axe or shoot a rifle to save her life, but she spoke, read, and wrote in three languages aside from English, and so for the sake of Hosea’s gambit, she held brief language lessons for John and Arthur. John had no patience for them, and Arthur was equally disinterested as he ever was in Hosea’s theatrics, but the two of them eventually learned at least two phrases in passable native German with accents convincing enough to fool anybody not a native German themselves.  Arthur quietly prided himself on mastering a third over Marston. Neither of them knew what any of the words they were saying meant.

Lenny and Javier enjoyed these lessons as well.  Lenny was eager to learn as much as she knew, but they focused on French.  Javier enjoyed cracking wise with her in Spanish at the expense of her less talented students.

Dutch often looked on during these lessons, something tolerant and distant in his expression, but said nothing and did not join them.

One evening she returned with Hosea and Javier with urgent news which she took straight into Dutch’s tent, not even waiting for Hosea to join her.

“The stagecoach isn’t coming from the north, Dutch.  It’s coming from Saint Denis in the south, through the bank.”

“Where did you hear this?  Hosea, what is she talking about?”

“She’s talking about the payroll stagecoach, Dutch…” The older man called across camp. “It won’t be coming from the north, I guess.  Something about bad weather and a deal through the Saint Denis bank.”

The young woman started again, her voice high with excitement, “It’ll be small.  Just enough to tide folks over a few days. The bigger payment--”

“-- Hosea, get in here.  Excuse us, Catherine, my dear, we need to plan…”

Arthur saw the strange look she gave Dutch, then, and heard the little laugh in her words, “... I can help you plan--”

“--We have this under control.  Excuse us.” He replied with finality, and stepped inside his tent.  Hosea shrugged at her when he passed her.

With another little laugh, Miss Catherine shook her head and crossed the camp to where Tilly was scrubbing laundry and asked to take over.  Apparently she wanted something to occupy her hands that didn’t require delicacy while they went over French grammar.

* * *

“...Are you sulking?” Arthur heard in the quiet hours when he settled on his cot and considered taking off his boots for the night.

“What in the world would I be sulking about?” Miss Catherine answered sweetly.

“I don’t have the faintest idea,” Dutch told her, “but it seems to me that you are.”

Movement, the creak of wood and the shuffle of cloth.  Arthur tried to block out the sounds, but he was listening… “... Well according to the both of us, then, I have no reason to sulk and so it would be foolish of me to sulk.  Nonsensical. You don’t think I’m a nonsensical woman, do you, Dutch van der Linde?”

“No, but I’ve known brilliant women to have their moods…”

“Brilliant men, too, I’m sure.”

“... Of course…”

A light laugh, more rustling cloth, and a low throaty grunt, “No.  I’m not sulking. You should know by now that if I thought some slight against me was worth responding to, I would confront it.”

“Hm…”

“... It’s good to know you still find me brilliant, though.”

“Of course I do.  You’re a woman after my own mind and ideals.”

Another light laugh, this one a little louder, “... So, what’s the new plan for the stagecoach?”

“Why do you need to know?  You aren’t imagining I’ll send you out with the boys, are you?”

“Wouldn’t that be a sight?  Ah, no, I just want to know, if it isn’t any harm.  You know I delight in your cunning…”

“Delight in it after we’ve succeeded, then.”  There was that firm note of finality again, and Miss Catherine did not voice a reply.  There was a rough clattering noise, then, as if something heavy had fallen, and then the unmistakable slap of flesh against flesh.  The sound was accompanied by a sharp gasp and the creaking protest of a wooden structure. The noises repeated, and Arthur sat frozen, convinced his sudden pounding heartbeat tried to match the rhythm of what sounded like their rough lovemaking.

He couldn’t stay there and listen.  Shoving his hat back on his head, he lurched to his feet.  It wasn’t important where he went, but he could not stay there.  He made his way for where he had Slim hitched, but it was a mistake, as it took him closer to Dutch’s tent, past the slit between sheets of canvas, where the lantern light bled out into the dark.

He saw their shadows moving in there.

There wasn’t much to hear over the loud creak of wood and Dutch’s fierce grunting with every thrust, but a higher note rang in Arthur’s ears, something soft and breathy.  It wasn’t until he saw the glint of Dutch’s rings that he realized he’d stopped and stepped closer to peep. Like some sick delinquent.

He had her bent over the little end table, skirts and petticoats pulled up high around her waist, over her hips and ass.  His strong fingers left bruises in the flesh of her hips and he pulled her roughly back to meet his thrusts, the front of his pants and belts undone just enough to free himself for the task.  The force of his hips against her body shoved her forward into the table again, where she steadied herself on her forearms, fingers clenched around the unfinished edges of the wood. Her expression was closed and her gaze infinitely distant, as if willing herself somewhere else.  Dutch’s face was cinched with single-minded, ferocious purpose, chasing his pleasure, lust gleaming in his dark eyes.

Arthur had been wrong.  This wasn’t lovemaking-- rough or otherwise.  This was rutting.  _ Fucking. _

_ ‘... I know what it is to be used.  I was raised my entire life to accept the use of men for their own ends and pleasures.  It is the only purpose for a rich man’s daughter, they told me. I’m not a fool. I know he’s using me for his own vanities.’ _

It was only twenty years of friendship and family that stopped him.  Twenty years of loyalty and love for this man who had helped rear him that kept him on his side of the canvas.  Everything else in him wanted to push through and pull her out of his grip so he could undress her slow and treat her the way she deserved, right there, in front of van der Linde.

It was at that moment he realized the hot feeling in his throat was shame.  He was ashamed. Ashamed of Dutch, that he could treat any woman, but particularly the woman he claimed to care for, in such a degrading way.  Ashamed of himself. For knowing what he shouldn’t. For not doing anything when he perhaps ought.

For wanting what wasn’t his.

He turned, tearing his eyes from her trembling lips, parted in faint, pleasureless gasps, desperate for kisses.  From the abrupt sway of her breasts above her corset, threatening to spill out of the neckline of her gown that tightened the crotch of his pants despite himself.  The golden gleam of lantern light over her rich dark hair and creamy skin… With shame burning in his throat, anger in his head, and lust in his loins, Arthur Morgan mounted up and rode out of camp.

If he were lucky at all, the wind and the stars would offer some space to breathe.

* * *

The job for the payroll stagecoach was just short of disastrous.  After a long chase and several gunshot injuries, as well as a follow-on chase after a timely appearance of the law, the gang only managed to get a hold of a little less than three hundred dollars.  Everyone was feeling a bit raw about it, and while Dutch urged everyone to look at their success, and Hosea insisted everything had gone as well as could be expected, they were a sorry scattering of small groups reconvening back in the camp.  Dutch turned aside Miss Catherine’s questions with a dismissive hand-wave, but she only needed to loiter around the campfire and wait to hear the grumbling of the others. While Tilly and Susan cleaned and bandaged wounds, she soothed rattled tempers and patched up egoes.

“You’ve made some money, and everyone came home alive,” She told them warmly, “which is better than they can say on any factory floor in the country.  More importantly, you did it without sacrificing your principle freedoms and dignity. From where I’m standing, you gentlemen did very fine work today.”

“You’re letting them off too easy,” Hosea told her in a faux scolding tone, “Foolishness and sloppy work shouldn’t be rewarded.”

“Foolishness and sloppy work are their own punishments,” Catherine replied gracefully, “and if they are guilty of either or both, then they are chastised enough even without their wounds.  Now is the time for encouragement while you reflect. In this way, you will come back stronger. Let me get the brandy. This kind of business needs a good drink to muse with. That way you’ll be ready for the train…”

“... What train?” Arthur asked aloud, and saw the same expectant question on each face around him.  Hosea’s brow furrowed, as if confused. Dutch was approaching the group, a thunderstorm brewing in his expression.

Catherine also looked around, then laughed lightly, “Why… didn’t Dutch tell you about the train…?  Mister Matthews…?”

“Dutch told me he was thinking about the train, Miss Catherine,” Hosea admitted.

“I haven’t made a decision about it yet.” Chimed in the leader of the gang.

The young woman’s confusion only increased, “It’s a good opportunity--”

“--What train?” Micah echoed Arthur’s question in a louder tone.

“--I haven’t made a decision about it, yet!” Dutch thundered, “And I will let you know when I do!”

With a small shrug, Catherine went to get the brandy to pour everyone some.

* * *

“What do you think you’re doing?” Arthur heard Dutch ask nearby in a hushed voice, forcing his mind to sharpen despite the clinging grip of fatigue.  Clenching his eyes, he decided once and for all that he’d have his tent moved in the morning.

Miss Catherine’s voice was softer yet, “... I think the the more important question, Dutch, is what  _ you _ think I’m doing.”

“It seems to me you think yourself capable of running things around here in my stead!”

She laughed, “My goodness!”

“I don’t find it very funny, Miss Schofield…” Arthur knew that low growl.  Suddenly he was wide awake.

“I find it ridiculous!  I’m not trying to rival you, I’m trying to help you!  Is that not why you brought me here?”

“It is not helpful when you undermine the loyalty we’ve established here.”

She scoffed loudly, “Is your loyalty maintained by keeping the others ignorant of your plans?  Not allowing them to take any initiative? I know that isn’t true! You wouldn’t be having this conversation with Hosea or John or--”

“--I wouldn’t need to have this conversation with any of them!  They don’t swagger around here shoving their fancy private education in everyone’s faces!  As if that were some qualifier for leadership!”

When there wasn't any reply--no scoff, no gasp of outrage, no condescending laugh--Arthur climbed to his feet, suddenly concerned.

“Don’t give me that look--” Dutch scolded.

“I see,” She said sweetly, too sweetly, “My schooling and initiative offends you.  The prospect that I know things you may not un-mans you, Dutch van der Linde?”

“Don’t be--”

“Do I threaten you?   _ You _ ?” She laughed then, “To think I would find these same old things here with the man claiming to live the teachings of Simmons and Martin and J Peterson…”

With a tight note in his voice, Dutch replied, “You’re delusional.”

“You said I was brilliant because I was a woman of your own mind and ideals!  But when I use my talents and resources to help you-- when I lend my effort to forge a destiny of freedom, I am ‘undermining’ you!  Now that I disagree with you, I am ‘delusional!’” Catherine’s voice was ice cold, “... You are a  _ much _ smaller man than I first took you for, Mister van der Linde.”

“You’ll want to watch what you say-- Don’t walk away from me!”

Outside, Arthur saw John rubbing his eyes and muttering curses under his breath, and Miss Grimshaw coming over hurriedly, as if the raised voices were cause for alarm.  There was a brief struggle on the other side of the tent flap, and Arthur pushed through, “What the hell is going on in here? Can’t nobody sleep--”

He almost ran headlong into Miss Catherine, whose arm was held in Dutch’s fist.  His other hand was raised, but it was unclear for what purpose. Arthur could not imagine a world where Dutch van der Linde would raise his hand to strike a woman he cared for.

But after the other night… he couldn’t immediately strike the possibility from his mind either…

Neither of them spoke to him, as if he hadn’t walked in, though his arrival had apparently interrupted  _ something _ .  The young woman jerked her arm away from Dutch’s grip.

“... I left my  _ father _ because he thought he could  _ force _ me to submit to the place he had prepared for me.   Uncanny how  _ similar _ you are despite all your trappings…”

Then she pushed past Arthur and out of the tent.  They heard a brief exchange of quiet words between her and Susan, then retreating footsteps.

“... What’s happening to you, Dutch?” Arthur asked in the quiet.

“... I don’t know, son.  I don’t… I don’t think I’ll ever understand women.  But… I can’t lose her.”

“Well…” Arthur sighed, trying and failing to feel a shred of sympathy, but looking into the worn, somewhat solemn lines in the familiar face only drew his memory back to rough hands and a fierce, uncaring pursuit. “... Best let her alone for now.  Talk about it tomorrow.”

“... Right.  You’re right.”

“... I’ll go make sure Miss Grimshaw has everything in hand.”

“Okay… Goodnight Arthur…”

Out in the air, John already ducking back into his own tent, the outlaw saw Susan Grimshaw approaching again, wringing her hands.

“She walked out into the night,” She said, “Ran off, more like…”

“I’ll go after her.” Arthur said loudly-- loud enough for Dutch to hear and not feel the need to take action himself.

“What’s going on, Arthur?”

“Oh, you know how it goes with ol’ Dutch…” Was the wry retort.

* * *

 

It was easy to find her out in the night, just beyond the scraggly trees that concealed their camp on the ridge.  She lingered by the crossroads, as if waiting for him.

“... You alright, miss?”

She laughed mirthlessly, “Please, Mister Morgan, I’ll be fine.  Especially now that you’re here. Did he send you to drag me back to his tent?”

“No.”

“Then will you walk with me?  I need the air.”

He gestured, and they walked, her keeping near enough to feel the heat of each others bodies.  There was a companionable silence, and Arthur was glad for it. He didn’t know what to say, and wasn’t sure he wanted to hear everything she might want to say just now.

Now while his blood was heated and his thoughts sluggish and thin and his hand kept brushing against her and longing to hang on while the wild-flower scent rippled through the air around them every time her dark hair brushed against his shoulder.

“... This is a good spot, don’t you think?” She said after a while, stopping at a large rock.  The high desert air was cool, and she shivered nearer him.

“For what?”

“For a camp.” Her pale eyes reflected the dimness of a cloudy night sky and he knew from the set of her chin he was better off not arguing for going back to their warm tents.  With a shrug, he scuffed the sole of his boot against the dirt, noting the dryness, and muttered about a fire.

Twenty minutes later had them a small campfire that put out more smoke and heat than light.  Arthur laid out his coat for the lady to lie down on and propped himself back against the rock.

“... Thank you.  This would not be as manageable if you had left me to my own devices… as much as it embarasses me to own it…” She murmured, propped on an elbow on her side, watching him.

“Mm,” He replied, keeping his eyes beyond their camp so as to perhaps convince himself he could silence all the foolishness in his head, “don’ mention it.”

“... I’m not a fool,” Was her affirmation into the dark, “but he was able to mystify me for awhile… But now I see clearly.”

Frowning, Arthur turned his gaze to her face, grateful she was looking at the smoke rising from their small fire instead of at him, “... Dutch ain’t a good man… but he ain’t so bad either…”

She shook her head, “... It doesn’t matter.  I won’t let him choose my place for me. I risked too much reaching for my freedoms to turn them over to him.  If I wanted a comfortable place, I had a much nicer one before I came here. If he won’t acknowledge the usefulness of my talents and knowledge, then he is unworthy of them…”

“I dunno… but you are pretty clever,” Was Arthur’s neutral reply.

“I  _ am _ very clever,” Her lips curled into a smile and too late he thought to glance away.  Now he was caught as their eyes met, “and just as ambitious as he is. Whether or not I’m  _ more _ clever than he is… I suppose we’ll see.”   
“...Why is this soundin’ like a competition?”

Her smile broadened, “I’ll have to play my set quickly…”

“Set?”

“I have better resources and connnections… but he is far more ruthless…”

“That he is… Catherine,” Arthur frowned and leaned toward her, voice stern to communicate his seriousness, “this ain’t a game…”

“No,” she agreed, “not a game in such a casual manner, but it has all the pieces and mechanics of a game.  It can be  _ played _ like a game…”

“People dyin’ ain’t a game.” He told her firmly, and did not add: ‘Him killing you isn’t a game.’

“People dying is what I aim to prevent,” She said with a shrug, “I’m fond of you all.”

“Shucks…” He rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious.  A time is coming soon when I’ll be gone, Arthur.  You’ll have to watch and listen. Dutch is ruthless.  He’s playing to win.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’--”

“Listen to me.” She sat up, propped on her hands, “You have to watch.  Dutch plays to win, and I can’t be convinced the terms of his victory include as much as he says.  Dutch’s victory will suit Dutch, and maybe nobody else.”

“Now come on--”   
“You especially.”

“Me?”

There was something heartbreaking on her face as she looked at him, something as mournful as the howl of a coyote, “He’ll spend you on his victory.  He’ll spend you like cash, and I’m sure you’ll let him…”

“...I…”

“... Make him spend slow,” Was her gentle request, “I’ll play my set as well and as fast as I can.”

He didn’t know what to say.  He wasn’t sure he knew exactly what  _ she _ was saying.  Shrugging, his eyes returned to the darkness out in the desert.

With a soft scrape, he heard her move to cuddle up beside him, pressing against his side.

“Miss--”

“--The ground is cold,” She explained, tucking her face in the hollow between his shoulder and neck and pulling his jacket over her.  The weight, warmth, and shape of her figure against him called loudly to all the places he thought were long since scarred over and cold in death.  His pants were once again too tight.

It was then that Arthur realized he wasn’t the only thief.  With heat suffusing his throat and heart skittering as if deeply aware how well the young lady’s hands were poised to seize it, he wondered what would become of them.  They were all of them thieves, and maybe there wasn’t any honor amongst them at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Schofield Revolvers - Repeaters and Classics Available Here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18157124) by [Omnibard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard)
  * [Thieves: Red Dead Roulette](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122822) by [Omnibard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard)




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